


I Either Lost Paradise, Got Lost On My Way To Paradise, Or Something Like That

by Stairre



Category: The Transformers (Cartoon Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Demons, Amazingly fluffy despite the tags, Background near-dystopic society, Continuity? What's a Continuity?, Crack Treated Seriously, Don't copy to another site, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Implied violence customary of a Demon AU, M/M, No actual violence occurs on screen, Past Homelessness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-20
Updated: 2020-06-20
Packaged: 2021-03-04 05:47:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,258
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24828553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Stairre/pseuds/Stairre
Summary: Hot Rod tuts. “Comeon, Springer,” he says again. “Your mentor was a sorcerer; it’s not like you don’t know demons exist.”---Or: Hot Rod's boyfriend Galvatron is not-so-secretly a demon, Springer wishes this wasn't his life, and the author spent most of this fic wishing this wasn't their life either because they did it on hard mode and kept them as Giant Space Robots in a Demon AU instead of going the easy route and making them Humans in a Demon AU.
Relationships: Galvatron/Hot Rod, Galvatron/Rodimus Prime, Hot Rod & Springer
Comments: 19
Kudos: 75





	I Either Lost Paradise, Got Lost On My Way To Paradise, Or Something Like That

**  
I Either Lost Paradise, Got Lost On My Way To Paradise, Or Something Like That  
**   
  


–  
  
  


Springer walks into the flat he shares with Hot Rod and Arcee, and nearly turns around and walks straight back out. _Primus Slaggin’ All-Creator.  
  
_

“Roddy, uh, quick question,” Springer asks, strained. “Why is there a portal to Hell in our kitchen?”  
  


“Huh?” Hot Rod looks up from the data-pad he’s tapping on. “Oh! Galvatron had to quickly go get something.”  
  


“Galvatron? Your boyfriend Galvatron?” Springer asks, wishing he wasn’t already ninety-nine per cent sure of the answer.  
  


“Do we know anyone else named Galvatron?” Hot Rod retorts. “ _Yes,_ my boyfriend Galvatron. Or court-mate. He prefers that term, even if it’s kinda old-fashioned.”  
  


“Your boyf – sorry, _court-mate_ – Galvatron lives in Hell?” Springer asks, already almost resigned.  


“He’s a demon,” Hot Rod says, impatient. “Come on, Springer, we told you this _ages_ ago.”  
  


“I didn’t think you were being literal,” Springer says, rubbing a hand over his face and attempting to speed-run coming to terms with the sudden tip into a smelter his life has become. “I really didn’t.”  
  


Hot Rod tuts. “Come _on,_ Springer,” he says again. “Your mentor was a sorcerer; it’s not like you don’t know demons exist.”  
  


It’s true. Springer hasn’t thought of the grumpy old slagger in a long time, but Primus help him, _it’s true._ His mentor had taught him all the signs of how to spot the supernatural at work, even after Springer had disavowed becoming over-involved in the magical world itself, and he still somehow _missed all the signs that Galvatron was a fragging **demon.  
  
**_

His mentor’s rusted corpse would be oscillating in shame in his tomb right about now.  
  


“Okay, okay,” Springer says. “Hot Rod – I – why? Just… why? A _demon?”  
  
_

“Technically,” Hot Rod says, a light of mischief upon his face that Springer instinctively dreads, “Galvatron’s an _arch-demon._ One of the Princes of Hell.”  
  


That’s it. Springer sits down next to Hot Rod, places his head in his hands, and muffles a scream.  
  


Hot Rod pats his back, being careful of his rotors. “There, there,” he says. “It’s all right.”  
  


“No,” Springer says into his hands. “No, it is not all right. My beloved Amica is being seduced by one of the lords of Hell, who plans to do who-knows-what to his eternal spark. I’m a bit stressed out, to be honest with you.”  
  


“To be fair,” Hot Rod says thoughtfully, “it was less that he seduced me, and more that I ran into him, thought he was really slagging hot, and asked him out on a date. That’s… not making this any better for you, is it?”  
  


“It’s not,” Springer sobs. “It’s really fragging not.”  
  
  


–  
  
  


“Sorry!” Hot Rod yelps as he rounds the corner and instantly collides with another mech. This mech is rather big, and Hot Rod’s pretty small, so down he goes, falling backwards onto the pavement and scattering his armful of data-pads everywhere. “Sorry, my bad. I shouldn’t have been going that fast.”  
  


The other mech blinks down at him, and, uh, _wow._ This guy is huuuuggeee. He could probably throw Hot Rod a mecha-mile and not even strain his pistons. Big and purple, with crown-like helm fins and a _massive_ amber cannon on his arm. A war-build other war-builds probably dream of being.  
  


Hot Rod – who patently refuses to be intimidated by _anything_ – smiles up at him apologetically. “Did I hurt you?” he asks, even though he knows the answer is almost-certainly a most emphatic _no._ A light and sleek racer frame like Hot Rod could clatter into this guy at top speed and likely do nothing more than scuff paintwork.   
  


“No,” replies the mech, and _frag._ Hot Rod silently curses his voice kink because those rumbling sub-harmonics are _something else.  
  
_

“Cool, cool,” Hot Rod says, clambering up to a kneel and collecting his data-pads. He has no more room in his subspace, but the sudden access to the public archives he gains by having held on to his residence in Uraya by the top layer of his paint long enough to be granted citizenship is irresistible. He wants to learn about _everything._ “Hey, wanna come out for drinks with me? I know a nice place near here.”  
  


 _Please say yes, please say yes,_ Hot Rod chants inside his head.  
  


The mech looks taken aback for a moment, before he lets out a bark of a laugh. “Why not? I have been seeking something new to do.”  
  


 _Please do me,_ Hot Rod thinks, but doesn’t say. That’s a bit too forward, even for him. “M’kay,” he says. “Lemme drop these back at my flat an’ I’ll meet you there, yeah?”  
  


Hot Rod gives the other the address of the oil house, learns his name is _Galvatron,_ and zooms back to the flat he shares. He dumps the data-pads on the kitchen table and hastily does a quick clean-up in his room _just in case._ Springer and Arcee are both away at the moment, for which Hot Rod swiftly offers up a prayer of thanks to Primus, before locking the door on his way back out.  
  


The looming frame of Galvatron is easy to spot in the oil house, and Hot Rod slips into the seat opposite and orders his usual – mid-grade energon with platinum and nickel shavings. He smiles cheerily at Galvatron, who seems to unnerve the server, and says, “I ain’t seen you around before. New to Uraya?”  
  


“I have been here before,” Galvatron says, “but many millennia ago now. It has grown substantially.”  
  


Uraya’s last notable expansion was well before Hot Rod came out of Nyon’s hot spot… way before the Nyonic hot spot even ignited, actually. Well, Galvatron does have that _Old Cybertron_ look about him. “Really? What was it like back then?”  
  


Hot Rod listens interestedly, occasionally prodding more details out with insightful questions, as Galvatron paints the picture of a Cybertron long gone. The two speak for much longer than Hot Rod thought they would, continuously ordering and then nursing more energon as the hours wear on. They frequently have to quiet themselves as their debates get louder and more animated.  
  


Galvatron doesn’t sneer at Hot Rod for rambling on, or getting excited, or blurting out rapid-fire questions. Instead, he seems to genuinely enjoy Hot Rod’s whirling mind, and the way his vocaliser barely keeps up with his many tangents.  
  


They leave eventually, when the light through the crystal-glass windows gets dimmer, and Hot Rod suddenly realises it’s near closing time. Over the course of the afternoon, Hot Rod cannot deny that he has thoroughly enjoyed himself.   
  


He plucks up his courage again as they stand on the street outside, Galvatron’s red optics glowing like the fires of the Pit. “Wanna come back to my place?” he asks, knowing that even if Galvatron says _no,_ then he’s still had one of the best dates of his life. He’s never before so swiftly _clicked_ with another mech, not even Springer.  
  


But Galvatron doesn’t say _no._ Galvatron says _yes.  
  
  
_

–  
  
  


Hot Rod’s thrilled when that one super-awesome date turns into a series of super-awesome dates.   
  


Galvatron’s kind of old-fashioned – they take turns choosing where they go, and he always chooses stuff like crystal gardens or ancient ruins Hot Rod didn’t even know existed out in the Wastes. Hot Rod’s the one who leads them to oil houses and the racing tracks, determined to show Galvatron the vivacity of people, rather than scenery.  
  


Between the two of them, they balance it out.  
  


It’s Galvatron’s turn today, and they’re out on the cliffs overlooking Uraya, the lights of the city so far away. Hot Rod’s continuous delight at being carried through the air by Galvatron’s anti-gravity mods has long since been noted, and he can’t even bring himself to be ashamed. _Tick_ for flight, and _tick_ for huge strong arms. Hot Rod is a simple mech, really.  
  


But their date gets interrupted by the sudden arrival of a purple jet, rocketing in and transforming next to them. The mech has these elegant horn-like protrusions and a measured, stately voice. “Lord Galvatron, my apologies for this interruption.”  
  


 _ **Lord** Galvatron?_ Hot Rod wonders, but he doesn’t get the chance to speak.  
  


“Cyclonus,” Galvatron says, voice discontented, “wherefore you came here?”  
  


“Straxus encroaches on our territory, my lord,” says Cyclonus. “Scourge holds the line for now, but you are needed on the battlefield.”  
  


Galvatron growls, menace vibrating through the air. “Straxus will pay for crossing me,” he vows, then turns to Hot Rod. “My fire, I must reluctantly part from you. Allow my lieutenant to escort you home safely. I will make this up to you, I swear it.”  
  


Then, with no care for the laws of physics, Galvatron curls his fingers into claws and slashes a vertical sweep in the air, which – _tears open._ He presses a kiss to Hot Rod’s lips, and steps through the rip in the world, his cannon already humming as he diverts power to its capacitor banks.  
  


Hot Rod blinks as the tear reseals itself, and turns to the mech left behind. His frame is antique in aesthetics, without looking like any of his actual parts are outdated. “Cyclonus, right?”  
  


“I am he,” Cyclonus nods. “And you are Hot Rod, the lover of mine lord.”  
  


Hot Rod has _so many questions._ “Yep, that’s me!” he smiles at Cyclonus, and then says, teasingly, “Take me home?”  


Cyclonus visibly stifles a surprised quirk of his lips. “My lord is in adoration of you,” he says. “Perhaps in this brief time I will be given to understand why.”  
  


“I always like making new friends,” Hot Rod says, as he sets about doing just that. “Keeps things interesting.”  
  
  


–  
  
  


So, Galvatron is a demon. An _arch-demon.  
  
_

Hot Rod stands on the balcony over-looking a particularly scenic view of one of the Bottomless Pits of Hell. Galvatron’s – castle? fort? palace? – is surrounded by them, built high on a point, making it _very_ hard to besiege from the ground.   
  


It’s not exactly the friendliest-looking place, but _damn_ is it beautiful, in that aggressively-functional, no-useless-kibble, sleek aesthetic type way. It’s not ugly; its functionality is meant to be shown off, to intimidate, to say _you won’t ever conquer **this**_ **.** It’s elegantly mesmerising in the way that pretty flora is; nature’s warning to not touch.  
  


Galvatron comes up behind Hot Rod. “What do you think, my fire?” he murmurs into Hot Rod’s neck cables, pressing his mouth there and kissing. “Look at what I can give you.”  
  


Hot Rod pauses, then pulls slightly away to turn around and face his partner. “I think,” he starts, trying to find the right words, “that you don’t have to buy me.”  
  


“Oh?” Galvatron places his hands on Hot Rod’s pelvic plates, and he’s big enough that his hands and fingers nearly stretch entirely around Hot Rod, holding him fully. It’s more than a little thrilling to have such a dangerous mech touch him so gently, with just enough of that hint of sheer force to tickle at Hot Rod’s attraction to Galvatron’s wild nature.  
  


“Yeah,” Hot Rod says. “I didn’t know you had any of this back when we first started seeing each other, it wasn’t a factor. And, yeah, probably would have liked to have known a little sooner that I was dating an arch-demon, but – you don’t have to ply me with material things to keep me.”  
  


“What if I want to?” Galvatron asks, drawing his deep voice out into a purr. “What if I want to dress you up in the finest cloaks, like those of old used to wear? What if I want to brush you in the finest waxes, or soak you in scented oils? What if I want to feed you the most refined and flavorous energon, so that your tanks are always full, so that you never go hungry again?”  
  


“I – ” Hot Rod would have stumbled had they been walking rather than standing. The images Galvatron paints in his processor are – _heh_ – divine. It’s – Hot Rod’s no stranger to going hungry, to going without safe shelter, to having an assortment of minor grievances with his frame because medics are expensive if you don’t have the right paperwork to your name.  
  


He grew up poor – no. In abject poverty, on the streets and tracks of Nyon. Hot Rod’s not ashamed of it, refuses to be. But he’s still a mech like any other, and no one’s _not_ had the vague fantasy of having some much wealthier mech fall in love with them and give them that security they so lacked.   
  


Granted, the mecha in the fantasies have never been _demons from the Pit,_ but Hot Rod’s adaptable. Everything Galvatron is offering is everything he wants. People can wax lyrical about true love not being affected by monetary wealth, and you know what? If Galvatron truly were another poor war-build trying to get by in a world that scorns them, Hot Rod would have still loved him.   
  


But he’s not ashamed to _want_ what Galvatron has to offer. To _want_ to be that sweet little Conjunx, loved and protected and cared for. Hot Rod’s as flighty as a seeker, everyone says, always ready to zip and zoom on to the next thing. So far, though, Galvatron’s been more inclined to run next to him than try to lock him up safe in a tower, so Hot Rod’s optimistic.  
  


Now, to tell all that to Galvatron…   
  
  


–  
  
  


Hot Rod first meets Scourge when a shadow in his room suddenly blinks at him with bright red optics.  
  


He’s proud to say that he manages to stifle his screech.  
  


The mech uncurls, ostensibly akin to a luna crystal flower unfolding in a graceful splay of thin and shining sheaths of crystalline petals, but so much more sinister. He has large curved wings, bright energon-pink talons, and is so silent it’s eerie. Hot Rod can’t even hear the tell-tale hum of internals, or the slide of metal plates shifting against each other as the mech moves to stand before him.  
  


“Uh, hi?” Hot Rod says. By now, Cyclonus has taught him enough of sensing auras – which are like EM fields only _not at all like them_ – for him to be able to tell that this mech is at the very least a spirit of Hell, if not a true demon himself. He certainly looks the part.  
  


“Hello,” says the mech, gravelly and strained, like the hoarse vents of the dying. That’s actually not as creepy to Hot Rod these days as he initially found it – a lot of Galvatron’s retinue are similarly _not-quite-right_ in how they look, sound or move. It’s the Unmaker in them. “You are… Hot Rod.”  
  


“I am,” Hot Rod confirms.   
  


“I… am Scourge,” says the other. “I serve Lord Galvatron.”  
  


 _Scourge._ Hot Rod has heard tales of Galvatron’s favoured huntsman and tracker, from both his court-mate and Cyclonus. He’s Galvatron’s other lieutenant, after Cyclonus, and has been away scouting and shoring up their borders for a while.  
  


Hot Rod lights up. “I have heard so much of you!” he says, excitedly, as Scourge blinks slowly. “Cyclonus has been eager for your return.” Not that Cyclonus ever says the like aloud, but Hot Rod’s an ace at reading people, and with Cyclonus it’s all about the implications in what he doesn’t say.   
  


“He speaks well of you,” Scourge offers after a moment. “I have been in intermittent communication with him.”   
  


Hot Rod grins. He’d been fairly sure that Cyclonus liked him, but it’s really nice to have it said aloud. The mech isn’t exactly the most forthcoming with his private thoughts. “You diverted all this way to see little old me?”  
  


“Cyclonus informs me that Lord Galvatron holds you in his highest esteem.” Scourge tilts his head, like a predator sizing Hot Rod up to see if he’s worth eating. “Your spirit is strong. Powerful. It suffuses through your home, and lights it up. I can see how it attracted my lord’s attention.”  
  


Hot Rod feels his faceplates heat up a little as embarrassment raises his internal temperature. Faceplates are soft metal, more malleable than armour plates, and significant changes in internal temp always show there first. “Plenty of people like that,” he says.  
  


“There is,” Scourge nods, thoughtful. “But while there is a unique spark in every mech created by the Light One, it takes a truly remarkable one to arrest Lord Galvatron’s attention in such a manner, let alone engender his affection.”  
  


“Well, now you’re making me blush,” Hot Rod says. “Get to know me better before you make judgements like that; I assure you, many find me _very_ annoying.”  
  


“Cyclonus has told me of your love for knowledge,” Scourge nods. “One we share. I am not averse to, ah, _getting to know you better.”  
  
_

“Huh,” Hot Rod says, optics drifting to the messy pile of data-pads on his berth, which he can now see has been rifled through. “Now we’re getting somewhere. Need to be anywhere soon?”  
  


Scourge smiles. He has fangs.  
  
  


–  
  
  


Hot Rod wakes in the night with a whine stuck in his vocaliser, trailing off in the still air.  


He shivers in place, though he’s under thick thermal blankets and Galvatron runs hot. He presses into his lover’s side, eager for his warmth to banish the chill of old memories, and Galvatron murmurs, his red optics onlining.  
  


“What ails you, my fire?” he asks, softer than any would expect of a Prince of Hell.  
  


“Nothing,” Hot Rod mutters back. “Bad memory purge, is all.”  
  


He shifts in Galvatron’s hold, turning so that they’re facing each other, throwing his arm over Galvatron’s side and absently touching the counterweight of his lover’s alt mode with his fingers. Maybe it’s all in Hot Rod’s head, but he finds that bit of kibble comforting to touch. Its whole purpose is grounding, after all.  
  


Galvatron pulls him in closer, grip not quite tight enough to hurt, but very firm. Just the way Hot Rod likes it. _I’m here. I’m not letting go._ “You shiver,” he observes.  
  


“Nyon got cold at night,” Hot Rod says into Galvatron’s neck cables. “’Specially if you didn’t have proper shelter.”  
  


Galvatron rumbles his engine – it’s not the engine of an alt mode, but they’re still cybernetic life, and they’ve got to run their bodies somehow – and switches his fans on to blow hot air over Hot Rod. He doesn’t bother to tell Hot Rod that he’s no longer in Nyon, that he’s left that life behind. Hot Rod already knows this, which makes the platitudes nothing but worthless noise.   
  


“Thanks,” Hot Rod sighs out as the heat sinks in. It’s psychosomatic (a new word from his studies), he knows. He’s not actually cold – in fact, his frame is near clicking on its own fans to cool itself down – but that means nothing in the face of defragging memory files determined to echo.  
  


Faster than he thought he would, Hot Rod sinks back into recharge, held carefully in hands that have bloodied themselves with millennia of violence.  
  
  


–  
  
  


Hot Rod carefully cradles the flame in his palms, fascinating by its unburning heat. It won’t burn unless he wants it to.  
  


“I knew you were fire-aligned,” Galvatron says, satisfied. “Soon, your enemies will flee before you.”  
  


“I don’t have enemies,” Hot Rod replies, letting the flame extinguish into nothing more than a wisp of trailing light, “and I’m not really planning on making any.”  
  


Galvatron sobers. “Mine enemies will be your enemies if you remain my court-mate,” he says warningly. “They will find you guilty by association. I will not have you defenceless.”  
  


Hot Rod grimaces, but nods his understanding. It’s not like he didn’t expect something like this to come up, the instant he learnt that Galvatron was – to not put too fine a point on it – not well-liked amongst the denizens of the Pit. Too powerful by far, too uncompromising, unwilling to bend and anyone else near-unable to _make him bend_.   
  


Hot Rod’s still trying to wrap his head around the complex web of Hell’s politics, but most of it seems to be a mix of either blackmail and cunning, or sheer might. The arch-demons face challengers for their positions and titles, and Galvatron cares little for allying himself with his neighbours.  
  


It means he keeps well out of most of the back-stabbing games. But it also means he has very few friends – or, more accurately, people who owe him favours – to call upon should he ever need them.  
  


Galvatron, therefore, has to remain impenetrable, all-powerful, and Hot Rod has no doubt that, right now, _he’s_ the weak link in Galvatron’s chain. It puts a bitter taste on his glossa, but he can’t deny it.  
  


Hot Rod sighs lightly. He will do this, because he loves Galvatron, and Galvatron loves him.   
  


“I won’t fight your battles for you,” he tells Galvatron. “I love you very much, but please don’t ask me to become a soldier for you.”  
  


“You most certainly will not,” Galvatron says sharply, then, less sharp. “Unless you change your mind. You are not one of my warriors. You are my court-mate. My equal. Let none tell you what to do!”  
  


Hot Rod’s lips quirk up into a smile.  
  
  


–  
  
  


Galvatron holds tightly to Hot Rod, so warm he almost burns, in the blank coldness of space.  


Before them, Cybertron is laid in its entirety. They’re up in the very edge of the stratosphere, Hot Rod clinging to Galvatron, and closer to the stars than Hot Rod has ever been. Growing up poorer than rust doesn’t present many off-planet opportunities.  
  


Hot Rod had asked, curiously, what it was like up there, admitting that he’d always wanted to travel, but had never had either the spare shanix or work opportunity to do so.  
  


Galvatron had promised to show him the universe. Hot Rod had begun to realise by this point in the relationship – several vorns – that Galvatron didn’t do hyperbole. He’d talked his lover down into just going up for a quick look tonight, stating that he had things to wrap up here on Cybertron before he could let Galvatron whisk him away for a tour of the nearby galaxies.  
  


“It’s beautiful,” Hot Rod breathes out, gazing down on the stretches of light shining brightly. He’s seen holos of Cybertron from orbit, of course, but it doesn’t compare to the real thing.  
  


“It could all be yours,” Galvatron reminds him.  
  


Hot Rod desperately wishes he could roll his optics, like some organic species could do. It feels like a very useful ability to have. “Do you really want to have to do the paperwork for an entire planet’s worth of territory?” he asks, instead of saying something like _no, imperialism is wrong._ You’ve got to choose your battles. “’Cause I’ve gotta tell you, I definitely don’t. I wanna travel, Galvatron, free as solar winds. Don’t tie me down.”  
  


Galvatron grunts and nods. “I would never,” he vows. “Your beauty should never be chained. I would rip apart any who tried.”  
  


Hot Rod struggles not to smile, because looking happy at sworn violence is kind of morally dodgy, even if he is honestly touched. “You say the sweetest things.”  
  
  


–  
  
  


“Hot Rod!” greets Galvatron, deep and commanding, the type of voice that carries no matter its volume. “I am returned to your side.”  
  


The portal closes behind him, folding back together smoothly, as though there’d never been a tear in reality at all. Springer stifles a whine by cutting off and resetting his vocaliser.  
  


“Galvatron!” Hot Rod cheers, slinging himself into Galvatron’s arms, totally at ease with being at the complete mercy of a Spawn of Unicron.   
  


Springer swallows back fear, stands up, and says, “Hello, Galvatron.”  
  


“Springer,” Galvatron acknowledges, giving him the barest glance before returning his attention to Hot Rod. “My dearest fire, here is what I procured for you.” He pulls something out of subspace, small enough to be held in one hand.  
  


Hot Rod pulls back to look at it, taking it from Galvatron’s fingers at his prompting. “What is it?”  
  


It looks like jewellery of some kind; metal chains twisted into complicated arrays and enclosing in carved holdings delicate crystals. Springer’s only ever seen the type worn by _very_ rich mecha, or simpler ones worn by priests and sorcerers – jewellery is not at all common among Cybertronians.   
  


“Protection,” Galvatron says, simply, “and promise. If you consent to wear it, you will be known as mine amongst all who have the knowledge to interpret it. I have the matching piece – if you agree… your spark signature may be held within the crystals, and all who see me will know me to be _yours.”  
  
_

Hot Rod stills, holding the piece reverently. Springer recalls many a night cycle of listening to Hot Rod gush about Galvatron, squirming under his and Arcee’s teasing. Of how much _family_ means to Hot Rod, who’s spent an awful lot of his life either alone or grieving the loss of a loved one.  
  


“Yes,” Hot Rod breathes out, vocaliser half shorting out with static but the words are clear. “Yes, yes – Galvatron!”  
  


Springer huffs his vents, stepping away and out of the room. The two are clinging tightly to each other, utterly oblivious now to the other person in the flat, and their EM fields are getting distinctly – frisky. Ugh. Time for Springer to leave. He loves Hot Rod to pieces, but he doesn’t really want to be fifth-wheeling him.  
  


Frag it. Looks like he’s gonna have to get used to having a demon as an in-law.  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Yes, the title is a reference to _Paradise Lost_. No, I don't care that Cybertronians have no concept of Christianity. Yes, they call it both 'Hell' and 'the Pit' - the term _Hell_ appears throughout TF canon, no matter if humans have been met or not. 
> 
> Hot Rod is a happ(ier) boy because he's never had to live through a war, though he's not without his share of sadness. Tried not to make him OOC. Also, Springer has rotors on his back because this is his Cybertronian alt mode, not his Earth one, don't @ me. 
> 
> I can also be found on [tumblr.](https://stairre.tumblr.com/) Come and say hi!


End file.
